The Final Hiding Place
by Paimpont
Summary: Left alone with Dudley's computer, Harry googles "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on a whim. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that... HP/TR romance.
1. Chapter 1

**~The Final Hiding Place~**

**Summary: **Left alone with Dudley's computer, Harry googles "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on a whim. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that... HP/TR romance.

**Warning: **Manipulative!Dumbledore, conspiracies and dark secrets, and **slash **(same-sex romance) between Harry and Tom Riddle. Be warned: This story is quite a bit darker than the ones I usually write.

**Rating: M **

**...**

Finally!

Harry peered out of his bedroom window and smiled to himself as the Dursleys' gleaming car vanished in a cloud of exhaust down the quiet suburban street. Five years after Dobby's unexpected arrival at Number Four, Privet Drive and the unfortunate pudding incident, the Masons had finally recovered enough to invite the Dursleys to dinner. Harry knew that it had taken years of insincere flattery on Uncle Vernon's part to get back in Mr. Mason's good graces. Aunt Petunia has been all aflutter with excitement when she learned that the whole family (minus Harry, obviously) would spend an evening at the Masons'. Dudley and Uncle Vernon had been squeezed into matching dark suits and tasteless ties and doused with vile after-shave, and Aunt Petunia herself had reminded Harry irresistibly of... well, a _petunia_ in her fluttery pink chiffon dress, smelling faintly of expensive perfume.

Three hours of freedom for Harry! Or maybe four, if Mr. Mason had the good sense to offer Uncle Vernon brandy and a cigar after dinner... And hadn't there been some talk of vacation pictures from Majorca as well?

Harry grinned to himself at the prospect of many long, delicious hours of complete liberty - well, _almost_ complete. The Dursleys had of course taken good care to lock the front door behind them before they left so Harry wouldn't be able to leave the house and inflict any magical mischief on their impeccable neighborhood.

But still - several Dursley-free hours!

As soon as the Dursleys were out of sight, Harry headed straight to the pantry and wolfed down as much food as he could manage. He knew the routine by now: The instant the Dursleys were all out of the house, he would eat any food he could find that wouldn't be missed until he was safely off at school. Drawing on years of experience in the fine art of staving off starvation, Harry focused on nutrient-dense items that would keep him fortified for at least another week or so. He quickly consumed his forbidden feast of sardines, condensed milk, tinned peaches, blackberry jam and cured ham. The flavors were a little odd together, but his stomach soon felt pleasantly full.

Now what? A wide array of forbidden pleasures had suddenly opened itself up to him. Television, video games, or Dudley's computer? Harry hid the empty tins behind an unopened container of bird seed in the pantry and pondered his options for a moment. The computer was probably his best choice. He didn't really share Dudley's taste in alien mutilation enough to enjoy the video games all that much, which left the television and the computer. And he knew that if the Dursleys returned home suddenly, he might get caught watching television downstairs, which would result in an inevitable beating. But if they came back while he was playing on the computer in Dudley's room, Harry would have enough time to turn off the machine and slip into his own room before they came upstairs. The computer it was, then!

Dudley's computer soon flickered to life, and Harry noted, with some amusement, that his cousin had been in the process of googling "How to attract hot girls". Harry knew that Muggles could look up all sorts of information on Google - Hermione had described the search engine to him in almost lyrical terms once - but Harry doubted that even Google could help Dudley with _that._

"You are going to need some real magic for that, Dudley," he whispered to himself. "More than you can find on Google!"

Perhaps Harry should look up something too while he had the chance? The only problem was that the information _he _needed was not likely to be found on Google. _How do I bring someone back through the Veil that separates the living from the dead? How do I defeat a Dark Lord? What is the best strategy for surviving a death eater attack?_

Harry's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment. Then he shrugged and typed in the name that was always hovering at the back of his mind these days: "Tom Marvolo Riddle". He knew enough about computers to realize that it would probably respond: "No results found for 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. Did you mean to search for 'Tommy's Marvelous Riddles'?" or some such, but there was something illicit and strangely satisfying about typing the name of a Dark Wizard into Dudley's Muggle computer. Uncle Vernon would probably burn the computer if he knew it had been used for such sinister purposes, mused Harry happily to himself._  
_

But to Harry's great astonishment, the computer didn't ask him any questions at all; instead, it immediately displayed the first of three pages of results. _Tom Marvolo Riddle, dealer in fine antiques. Tom Marvolo Riddle, reclusive philanthropist. Tom Marvolo Riddle's scholarship fund for orphaned children..._

What? _What_?

Harry stared at the screen. A sudden dark tingling ran through his blood. Was he hallucinating? Surely, this couldn't be _the _Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord? But how could there be another person in the world with a name like _that_?

There was a spot on the screen to click if you wanted results for "Images". Harry moved his cursor slowly over. No. No, this _couldn't _ be the same Tom Riddle... Could it? Of course not. Just a bizarre coincidence...

Harry clicked on "Images", and several small pictures of a man's face filled the bright screen.

Harry sat frozen for a long moment, staring in complete incomprehension at the faces on the computer screen. Then he moved his cursor over and clicked on one of the images to enlarge it.

The man's face filled up the whole screen now, and grave grey eyes stared out at Harry from the backlit surface.

_Tom Riddle. _

Harry felt faint. Tom Riddle? Yes, the face on the screen was definitely Tom Riddle's. He looked older now than when Harry had seen him as a shadow in the Chamber of Secrets or as a memory in Dumbledore's Pensieve, but those hypnotizing eyes were still the same. How old was he? Thirty years old, perhaps, or forty? No, that was absurd! Tom Riddle had been a student at Hogwarts in the 1940s - he should be McGonagall's age by now! Even if wizards were known to age more slowly than Muggles, there was no way Tom Riddle could look like this. And yet it _was _Tom Riddle. There was no mistaking those luminous silver-grey eyes, fringed by dark lashes, or those sculptured features, or those full lips that curled in a half-ironic smile...

Tom Riddle-?

But how could that _be_? This didn't make any sense!

Tom Riddle had long since lost that human beauty that he had once possessed. He had become Voldemort! Those bright quicksilver eyes now gleamed scarlet, and that lovely face had become distorted into something monstrous and inhuman.

_Voldemort. _Harry stared at the image of the man before him, and he realized with a strange sense of chill that this _was _Voldemort's face. Yes, he could see something resembling the familiar face from his nightmares in the contours of those chiseled features and in those mesmerizing eyes. This was Voldemort, and yet not Voldemort at all. The man on the screen was Tom Riddle as he would have been if he had never turned into a monster. This man was still human, and still disturbingly lovely to look at, like an unfallen angel...

Harry clicked frantically back to the previous page and brought up the list of search results. Tom Riddle, a well known antiques dealer, appeared to own a shop in one of the better parts of London. Tom Riddle was listed among the donors to various charitable causes, including a generous scholarship "in memory of Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop of Wool's Orphanage". Wait, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop? Harry felt a shiver at the nape of his neck. Weren't they the children Tom had hurt in that cave, long ago?

Harry rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? He _must _be dreaming! Surely, this must be some terrible mistake? Perhaps someone had planted all this false information about Tom Riddle on the Internet, in order to... In order to what? Deceive the Wizarding World? But most wizards never even used computers! Why would someone put a false image of an older Tom Riddle out there, when nobody who knew him was likely to see it?

What if _this _was the truth, then, and everything else was a lie? What if the grave silver-eyed man on the screen was the true Tom Riddle after all? But if _this_ was Tom Riddle, then Tom Riddle could not be Voldemort. And if Tom Riddle was _not _Voldemort after all, then...

Then what? Then _everything_ _must_ _be_ _a_ _lie_. Every word Dumbledore had ever told him, every memory Harry had seen in the Pensieve, everything he had been taught about the Dark Lord... All lies. But _why_ would Dumbledore lie to him? Or perhaps Dumbledore himself was mistaken? Had someone managed to outwit the entire wizarding world, including Dumbledore himself, and made them believe in a Dark Lord who was not real?

No! The monstrous Voldemort himself _was_ real - Harry had seen him, felt the searing pain of his touch. Yes, The Dark Lord was all too real. But what if he was _not_ Tom Riddle, but merely someone who looked like him?

Or perhaps the man in the picture was someone who had used Polyjuice potion to make himself look like the man the Dark Lord could have been? But _why _would someone do such a thing?

With a trembling hand, Harry hit "Print", and Dudley's printer whirred and spit out a solitary sheet of paper.

Harry took the paper and stared down at the few lines of text. The home address of Tom Marvolo Riddle in London. The man who might not be Voldemort after all...

Harry folded the piece of paper and stuck it inside his pocket. Then he deleted his browsing history, turned off the computer, and headed downstairs.

He grabbed a fistful of Aunt Petunia's emergency cash from her secret stash behind the cookbooks in the kitchen. Then he reached for a heavy chair and used it to smash his way out of the dining room window. Shards of glass rained down on the Dursleys' impeccable lawn, small fragments of Harry's latest transgression, left there for the Dursleys to find upon their return. Harry checked his pocket and made sure his wand was still there.

There was going to be hell to pay for that broken window later, and the theft of the cash would probably earn him a savage beating and a month in the cupboard when it was discovered. But right now, Harry didn't care what the consequences were. He was going to London to find Tom Marvolo Riddle.

...

"May I help you, sir?" Somehow, the man at the reception desk at the elegant apartment building managed to make the word "sir" sound like an insult.

Harry swallowed, painfully aware that his oversized hand-me-downs probably made him look like something the cat had dragged in. "I'm here to see Tom Riddle."

The concierge managed to communicate with a miniscule lifting of his left eyebrow that he considered this outcome exceedingly unlikely. "Is Mr. Riddle expecting you, sir?"

"No." Well, not unless this was an elaborate trap. Why hadn't that idea occurred to Harry before now? Was this a clever ruse, devised by Voldemort himself in order to lure Harry away from the safety of the Dursleys? No, no one could have predicted that Harry would google "Tom Marvolo Riddle". Harry had chanced upon an inexplicable mystery, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

"May I tell Mr. Riddle what your business is?" The concierge studied Harry with an expression of distaste. He lowered his voice and breathed in a mock-confidential whisper: "I believe Mr. Riddle only donates to established and reputable charities, _sir._"

"I am not here to ask for money." Harry could feel his cheeks burning. "I'm here to talk to him about..." About what? Harry groped for a name, something that would have some meaning to this unfamiliar Tom Riddle. Somehow, he did not think he would be admitted if he said: "I am here to ask him about a Dark Wizard named Voldemort", so Harry settled for "I want to talk to him about... Albus Dumbledore. It's very important."

The concierge frowned. "Albus Dumbledore? Is that one of the artists whose work Mr. Riddle collects?"

Harry nodded silently, imagining the recently deceased headmaster of Hogwarts as an obscure artist, surrounded by paints in bright purple hues. It was a rather pleasant image.

The concierge sighed and picked up the phone. He pushed a button. After a brief pause, he said: "I do beg your pardon, Mr. Riddle, but there is a... a _boy_ here to see you. He says it's about a Mr. Dumbledore, sir." A pause followed. "Yes, I believe he said "Dumbledore", Mr. Riddle." The concierge looked towards Harry to confirm the odd name, and Harry nodded quickly. "From the orphanage? Yes, I believe he could be from the orphanage, sir." A long pause followed. Then the concierge said, a note of utter disbelief in his voice: "As you wish. I will send him up, sir."

The concierge put the receiver back and said, with distinct regret in his voice: "Mr. Riddle has kindly agreed to see you. Take the elevator to the seventh floor. It's the first flat on the left. Make sure you do not wander about the corridors, or I _will_ call the authorities."

Harry nodded briefly and headed over to the elevator, clutching his wand firmly inside the pocket of his jacket. _  
_

...

For a moment, Harry wondered, absurdly, if Tom Riddle, the antiques dealer, would remember him. Surely, he would be able to sense somehow that his dark shadow self was the mortal enemy of he Boy Who Lived? But there was no recognition in the silver-grey gaze of the man who opened the door a moment later.

"So, you are the boy who wants to talk about Albus Dumbledore." Tom Riddle's voice was calm and pleasant. Was this Voldemort's voice? Harry couldn't quite decide. "How very unexpected." Riddle's bright silver eyes grazed Harry's shabby clothes for just a moment, and then he stepped aside and motioned to Harry to enter. "Come in, then."

Harry hesitated for a brief instant, a sudden icy fear flickering through him as he gazed at the handsome, half-familiar face of the older Tom Riddle. But then he took a deep breath, closed his fingers around his wand, and followed Riddle into his flat.

The flat was spacious and beautifully furnished, but surprisingly messy. The walls were lined with ornately carved bookcases filled with what Harry assumed were rare and valuable volumes, but wobbly stacks of old leather-bound books had spilled over to the low tables and deep armchairs as well. Antique glass-fronted cabinets were filled with curiosities: old astronomical instruments, Egyptian scarabs, obscure maps, bronze figurines of ancient inscrutable gods, silver daggers and jewel-encrusted cups, all jumbled together. Centuries-old books were flung on tables and chairs and carpets, open to fantastic illuminations of medieval beasts, saints and sinners, all equally beautiful in the eyes of the long-ago artists. Harry suddenly recalled that Dumbledore had once referred to Tom Riddle as a collector, and a collector he seemed to be, albeit a charmingly disorganized one.

"I am Tom Riddle." The tall grey-eyed man offered his hand to Harry. "What's your name, then?"

Harry shook the outstretched hand, half expecting to feel the familiar searing pain at the touch. But there was no pain, and Tom Riddle's handshake was firm and surprisingly warm.

"Harry Potter," he said quickly. He studied Riddle's face closely as he spoke, marveling at the unfamiliar humanity of his features. There was still a trace of Voldemort in his face, but an utterly different Voldemort, as if the familiar monster had shed its hideous skin and emerged human, fragile, beautiful... Behind Riddle, Harry could see the darkening London skyline through the large bay windows, and the sun was setting in blood and fire at the horizon.

"Sit down, Harry." Riddle indicated two deep armchairs by the fireplace. "Please excuse the mess; I was busy reading. Would you like something to eat? You look hungry."

"No, thank you."

Harry sat still for a moment, wondering what to say next. What do you say when the world has stopped making any sense at all? Harry could feel those unsettling quicksilver eyes linger on his face, and he wondered what Tom Riddle was thinking.

"You are a wizard," said Riddle suddenly. "I can sense it, Harry. There is a magic about you."

Harry took a deep breath and met the bright gaze. "Yes, I'm a wizard, Mr. Riddle. Are you?"

Tom Riddle was silent for a moment. Then he said softly: "No, I'm not, Harry. Not any more. I used to be, but that's a long time ago."

"How long ago?" whispered Harry.

Riddle smiled. "Longer than you think, perhaps. I am a great deal older than I look. Perhaps I have aged so slowly precisely because I no longer use my magic. Since my magic can find no outlet through spells and curses, it burns like a flame within me and keeps me young instead... They never taught us about _that_ side of magic at Hogwarts, but then I don't suppose it's something that a lot of wizards know about. Most wizards like to _use _their magic, every chance they get."

"When... When did you last use your magic, Mr. Riddle?" Harry tried to keep his voice steady.

Tom Riddle looked down. "I have not performed magic since I was sixteen, Harry. Not since the day I accidentally unleashed a monster that killed an innocent girl." There was a slight trembling in his voice. "It's a dangerous thing, magic. Which is why I prefer not to use it."

Harry stared at him. "Killed an innocent girl? Myrtle, you mean?" _Accidentally? He relased the basilisk accidentally? _

Tom Riddle nodded. "That's right. Poor little Myrtle McGrew. You know about the horrible act I committed, then, when I so thoughtlessly set the basilisk free. I expect people talk about it still, even after all these years."

Harry swallowed. "They do, but everyone assumed that Hagrid was the one who unleashed the monster.

Riddle looked startled. "_Hagrid_? The large boy with all the pets? I remember him! But why on earth would people think _he _had anything to do with it? Surely, Dumbledore would have set them straight?"

"Dumbledore?" Harry could feel his head spinning. "He.. he may have suspected that you had something to do with the opening of the chamber, perhaps, but I don't think he _knew.._."

Tom Riddle's silver eyes widened. "What? Oh, but you are wrong about that, Harry! Of course Dumbledore knew! I went and told him about it right away, as soon as the tragedy happened! I confessed to Dumbledore the horrible thing that I had done, and I also informed him that I would save headmaster Dippet the trouble of expelling me; I would pack my things and be gone by the morning. I left Hogwarts that night, after I had seen what dark and terrible things my magic could do, and I have never used magic since."

"You have _never_ _used_ _magic_ since?" Harry gazed at Riddle in wonder. "But... But you went on to kill your own father with the _Avada _curse! And several other innocent people, including my parents-"

"What?" Riddle's face was ashen. "Where are you getting these strange ideas from, Harry? I _killed_ my father? And your parents? Who told you that?"

"Albus Dumbledore," whispered Harry.

"Albus Dumbledore." Riddle's voice was almost inaudible. "_He _told you all these things? But I don't understand... _Why_ would he say such a thing? Has Dumbledore gone mad in his old age? Surely, you must have listened to the delusions of a madman. Where is he now, Harry?"

"Dead," said Harry, his words catching in his throat. "Albus Dumbledore died a few months ago. He was murdered by the Hogwarts potions master, Severus Snape, a servant of the dark wizard Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" Tom Riddle stared blankly at him. "Another dark wizard, like Grindelwald?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. But I don't understand... You see, Voldmort is _you, _Mr. Riddle."

"_What_?" Another look of blank incomprehension. "_Me_?"

Harry looked closely at Riddle, but he could see no deception in his pale, sculptured face, only confusion and alarm. "Yes, you. According to Professor Dumbledore, and the other Hogwarts professors as well, like Slughorn, _you _became Voldemort. You unleashed the basilisk, murdered your own father and grandparents, created several horcruxes and became the Dark Lord Voldemort. I have seen Voldemort; he has tried to kill me. I know that he is real, and that he is terrifying beyond belief. And according to Dumbledore, there is a prophecy that says that I have to be the one to kill Voldemort in the end, unless he kills me first..."

Tom Riddle sank down in a chair, his face whiter than snow. "Oh, good God, Harry! There is some great evil at work here, there can be no doubt of that! But I do not understand _any _of this. I never wanted to have anything else to do with the magical world again, but since Dumbledore has chosen to involve me personally in this, I may not have any choice. And he has dragged you into this, too, by the sounds of it - a mere boy who reminds me of the neglected schoolboy I once was... " Riddle sat in silence for a long moment, staring at Harry. Then he whispered: "Harry, you had better tell me everything, from the very beginning. Then, perhaps, we can begin to understand who or what this monstrous Voldemort is."


	2. Chapter 2

**~The Final Hiding Place~**

**Chapter 2**

**Summary: **Left alone with Dudley's computer, Harry googles "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on a whim. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that... HP/TR romance.

**Warning: **Manipulative!Dumbledore, conspiracies and dark secrets, and **slash **(same-sex romance) between Harry and Tom Riddle. I suppose one could say that Tom Riddle is out of character in this fic, but since he is not precisely the same person as the Riddle from the diary or the Pensieve, I'm not even sure if "out of character" is the right term here.

AU from the end of Book 6, obviously.

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the encouraging reviews and comments! You guys are wonderful!

**...**

Tom Riddle sat quite still and listened as Harry told him the story of his life, his years at Hogwarts, and his encounters with Voldemort. A few times, Riddle drew his breath sharply or shifted uneasily in his chair, but it wasn't until Harry mentioned that Dumbledore had wanted him to go and find the rest of the Dark Lord's horcruxes, that Tom leaped out of his chair.

"Horcruxes? Pieces of a broken soul hidden in precious objects? What meaningless nonsense is this?" Tom stared at Harry, aghast. "The human soul is not a _thing_ that can be divided up or hidden away, Harry."

Harry swallowed. "I'm afraid it's not nonsense. I have seen some of the horcruxes for myself: Tom Riddle's diary, containing a piece of Voldemort's soul, the cursed ring that destroyed Dumbledore's hand..."

Tom Riddle ran his hand, bewildered, through his wild, dark curls, mussing them up completely. "But they can't have been horcruxes, Harry! The diary and the ring? Mere objects, which someone must have imbued with dark magic! I did keep a diary while I was at school, it's true, but it contained nothing but the incoherent ramblings of a lonely boy who thought himself rather clever. I dare say I would have been thoroughly embarrassed to read it now! But I lost my diary about halfway through my last year at Hogwarts, and I never found it again."

Tom hesitated for a moment. Then he whispered: "At the time, I half suspected Dumbledore of stealing it."

"Dumbledore?" Harry felt something stir at the nape of his neck. "Why?"

"Well..." Tom flushed a little. "Albus Dumbledore always seemed so curiously... well, _obsessed_ with me, I suppose, ever since the day he first came to find me at the orphanage to invite me to Hogwarts. Many of the Hogwarts professors took an interest in me, since I was alone and friendless and rather talented at magic. But sometimes, especially as I grew older, I would catch Dumbledore looking at me in a way that struck me as... different. Unnatural. Almost eerie." He shuddered slightly. "In retrospect, I have sometimes wondered if he wasn't just one of those perverted old men who are attracted to young boys..." He looked sharply at Harry. "You knew Dumbledore quite well, it seems. Did he ever... cross any lines in his relationship with you, Harry?"

Harry shook his head silently, his thoughts in turmoil. No! Dumbledore wasn't that sort of person... was he?

"Good!" Tom looked relieved. "For a moment, I was beginning to worry. Dumbledore seemed to have had some sort of obsession with you as well, and seeing that you are quite beautiful..." He shook his head quickly, as if trying to rid himself of the thought. "Oh, well. Perhaps Dumbledore was not quite as depraved as I imagined. I am still wondering if he was the one who stole my diary, though. But even if he - or someone else - had taken my old diary and put some dark curse on it, for some reason I couldn't even begin to fathom, no human being could ever imbue it with _soul. _A clever wizard could perhaps hide a memory or an image in it, using magic similar to that which is used when accessing a moment from the past in a Pensieve, but a _soul_? No, such a thing would be impossible! The human soul cannot be touched by magic, or splintered or destroyed."

Harry stared at him. "_What_? Of course it can! Perhaps you just don't know about this sort of magic, Tom, since you left the wizarding world behind when you were sixteen. Of course a soul can be influenced by magic! What... What about dementors? Everyone knows that they can suck a person's soul out!"

Tom Riddle looked even more baffled now. "Oh, I know about dementors, Harry! But they don't _actually_ suck a person's soul out - that's just an expression, a vivid turn of phrase! I know that young children from wizarding families often believe that a dementor will literally suck a person's soul out, but of course they do no such thing; they use a dark and vile sort of magic to rob a person of all their happiness. A dementor's kiss will cause such a deep trauma that anyone they attack will be left severely psychologically damaged for life. It may _seem _as if the victims have lost their souls, but what they actually lose is their sanity and their power of expression. A dementor's kiss has much the same effect as an extended Cruciatus curse; the kiss will cause as much mental pain as the curse causes physical pain, and the victims of either will descend into a state of insanity. But no agony, physical or mental, could ever harm a person's _soul_, Harry! All adult wizards know that, and I am certain that Dumbledore does too! I know I left school when I was only a boy, but I was a rather exceptional student, if I may say so myself, and I had read every book of magic that I could get my hands on while I was in school. I know a great deal more about magic than many wizards, Harry, and I know that no spell or curse in the world can destroy or splinter a soul."

Harry ran his hand over his eyes. "Wait... You are saying that there _are _no horcruxes?" He could feel his head begin to throb. "That Dumbledore just made it all up-?" Everything had taken on such an odd, dreamlike quality all of a sudden that he no longer knew what was real and what was not.

Tom nodded. "That's precisely what I am saying, Harry. But I have no idea why Dumbledore would make up such a wild story. Horcruxes! What a bizarre notion! Dumbledore must have had a reason of his own for wanting you to destroy certain artifacts, but the reason cannot have been that they contained pieces of a broken soul!"

Harry frowned. "No, you _can't _be right about this. Dumbledore is not the only one who knows about horcruxes. The other teachers..."

"The other teachers?" Tom Riddle looked startled. "_They_ believe in these horcruxes as well? Good God, have they all gone mad? Poor Horace Slughorn was always rather gullible, but what about Professor Binns? And Minerva McGonagall? You said that she is teaching at Hogwarts, right? I know her from my own schooldays, and she used to be a rather sensible, no-nonsense person."

Harry hesitated. "Well, I've never spoken to Professor McGonagall about horcruxes, that's true. But Professor Slughorn told me about them! Or rather, he finally gave me a memory that contained the conversation you and he had about horcruxes. The first memory Dumbledore showed me had been tampered with, but the second one hadn't..." Harry felt something tingling at his spine. "Unless... Unless Dumbledore had tampered with _both_ memories somehow..." He felt his head spinning. "Oh, Merlin! I don't know what to think, Mr. Riddle."

"Tom, please," said Tom Riddle automatically. A sudden smile lit up his pale handsome features. "We are partners in a strange and sinister adventure now, Harry, whether we like it or not. Any formality between us would be absurd under the circumstances." He shook his head slowly. "If only I could understand _why _Dumbledore would make up such a tale! Why does he need you to destroy these objects? You said the headmaster is dead, Harry. Are you quite certain about that? Is there any chance he could still be alive?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I was there, Tom, on the night he died, and I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. There were Death Eaters everywhere - those are Voldemort's followers - and Draco Malfoy was supposed to kill Dumbledore. But Draco couldn't do it, and so Professor Snape did it instead. He pointed his wand at the headmaster and spoke the _Avada _curse. Professor Dumbledore tumbled off the astronomy tower, like a... like a broken ragdoll..."

"He _tumbled_ off the tower?" Tom leaned forward, very attentive now. "Because he was hit by the _Avada _curse? Was he perched on top of the wall, then?"

Harry swallowed. "No, he was just standing there on the rooftop. But the force of the curse flung him over the wall."

"_What_?" Tom stood quite still for a moment. Then he whispered: "But that's not how the killing curse works, Harry! There is a flash of green light, and a great rushing sound, and _then the victim crumples quietly to the ground! _The Avada curse does not fling someone through the air. Surely, you must have learned about that in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"

"I..." Harry was about to answer, but a sudden memory of the poor spider that had been hit by the fake Moody's curse rose in his mind. With a strange chill, he realized that the spider had just fallen over onto its back, right where it was. _And so had Cedric Diggory, when he was hit by the Avada Kedavra curse in the graveyeard! _Harry felt faint. Snape had pointed his wand at Dumbledore, and there had been a green light... Had there been a rushing noise? He could not recall. But there _had _been a force that had lifted Dumbledore off his feet and flung him down from the tower...

Harry's mouth felt dry. Tom was right. An _Avada Kedavra _curse could not have done that. Something about the murder of Albus Dumbledore had been off, completely off... Had Dumbledore _really_ been killed that night? Harry could feel the thudding of his own heart now, sharp frightened beats.

Harry glanced up at Tom, bewildered. "You... you are right, Tom. The _Avada Kedavra _curse doesn't work like that. It doesn't blast someone off their feet like the curse I saw. The green light was there, and the deadly curse was spoken, but the effects of the curse were more like..." Harry froze. _Of course. _He had seen that spell many times before; why had he not recognized it on that terrible night he thought Dumbledore had died? "Like the _Expelliarmus _spell..."

Tom nodded. "Precisely. Is it possible that this potions master was somehow in league with Dumbledore, Harry? Could they have collaborated to fake his death?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I.. I suppose so..." He buried his head in his hands. "Oh, Merlin, Tom! I don't know what's real any more! I don't know who to trust."

Tom put a hand on Harry's arm. "You have had a great shock, Harry. Quite understandable! Listen, we need to get to the bottom of this, but right now I think you have had enough for one day. You are trembling, poor child! May I drive you home? I will come and find you tomorrow, if I may, after you have had some rest, and we can see what sense we can make out of all of this."

"Home?" Harry felt a sudden jolt of panic. "Please, no! I live with my aunt and uncle, and I don't think I would be especially welcome there right now. They had locked me up, you see, and I had to break a window to get out so I could come and see you. And I took some of my aunt's extra housekeeping money to pay for the bus... They'll beat me so hard I won't see straight for a week if I go back there now."

"What!" Tom sounded shocked. "They beat you? Why, you should have told someone, Harry! Someone at school, the Muggle authorities, anybody!"

"I don't think anyone in the wizarding world is terribly worried about it," muttered Harry. "Dumbledore has told everyone that I _have_ to stay with my aunt and uncle because it's the only place where I would be safe from Voldemort."

"He said _that_?" Tom's mouth set in a hard line. "Well, you won't be going back there, Harry. I will call the authorities myself and make sure that your aunt and uncle are held responsible for what they have been doing to you." He hesitated, then brushed Harry's hair aside a little. "Is that how you got that scar? From your relatives?"

His hand was warm, and Harry couldn't help marveling that Tom's touch felt pleasant against his skin. "No, that's the scar left by Voldemort's killing curse when I was a baby. Dumbledore said that my mother's sacrificial death left me with a magical protection that helped me survive the killing curse."

A slight smile brushed over Tom's pale face. "At least he got _that _part right! Yes, your mother's willing death for your sake would have protected you, even against the killing curse."

Harry rubbed his scar. "But Tom, there is something strange about this scar! It starts hurting every time Voldemort is angry, and sometimes, I can even sense his thoughts. I know that this sounds absurd, but sometimes I have even wondered if I could be one of Voldemort's horcruxes, since I seem to share his soul."

Tom's eyes widened. "Share his _soul? _But there _are _no horcruxes, Harry! Souls can't be shared or splintered! No magic like that could ever exist, no matter what Dumbledore may have told you! If you can sense Voldemort's thoughts, there must be some other magic at work. Are you a legilimens?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm not..."

"But then, how could you possibly sense that monster's thoughts?" Tom ran his finger over Harry's scar, and Harry felt his breath catching in his throat. Tom was suddenly so very close, and the warm, slightly musky scent of his skin and his aftershave made Harry a little dizzy.

"Do you have a wand with you?" asked Tom abruptly.

Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled out his wand and handed it to Tom. How odd, that he should trust Tom Riddle enough to surrender his wand! On the other hand, he didn't really have anyone else to trust right now. Tom clutched the wand, and Harry was reminded, irresistibly, of another wand in those long, pale, fingers... A small icy flicker of fear breathed through him.

"All right, hold still," whispered Tom. "I haven't performed magic for a very long time, but I used to be good at this." He pointed the wand at Harry's forehead. "_Antleo!"_

A jolt of pain seared through Harry's head. Something came out, out from a dark and secret place within him; he could feel the wand's magic forcing something to the surface, out into the light of day. There was a sharp pain, a sudden sense of loss, but then something in him seemed to ease and breathe. Harry's whole being suddenly felt different, lighter, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He touched his scar in wonder. "What... What happened, Tom?"

"Here, see for yourself," said Tom softly. He held out his hand. Something small and dull grey, about the size of a small pearl, was resting in his palm.

Harry stared at it, a shiver running down his spine. "_That _came from my scar? What is it?"

"Your connection to the Dark Lord," whispered Tom. "A fragment, perhaps, of that terrible being you know as Voldemort_. _It is imbued with some sort of dark magic, I can sense it. But what exactly it _is_, I can't tell. Not a soul, obviously. Something else, but I don't know what..."

Harry stared at the small grey bead. It was neither stone, nor flesh, nor anything else he could easily recognize. "Is it alive?" He shuddered slightly.

Tom shivered a little. "I don't know. I don't think so, but just in case-" He threw the little grey bead up in the air and pointed Harry's wand at it. "_Confringo!_" A small explosion followed, and the bead vanished.

"You... You are rather good at magic still, Tom," breathed Harry. He glanced at Tom and wondered at the strange symmetry of things: Here was the man Voldemort could have been, removing that odd shard Voldemort had left within him.

Tom grinned then, and suddenly he seemed almost like a boy. "Why, thank you! Here, take your wand back, so I won't be tempted to use it for random things, like dusting my book collection." He handed Harry the holly wand. "Now, I suppose you can stay here for the time being, if you like - or I can find you a comfortable hotel somewhere."

"Here, please," said Harry quickly. He felt his cheeks grow hot. "That is, if you don't mind..."

Tom smiled. "Oh, I don't mind at all. In fact, it will be rather reassuring to know that you are here, where I can keep an eye on you, and not out there in the insane world, where some Dark Lord who bears a striking resemblance to me is at large... I'll clear some of the books out of the guest bedroom."

Harry followed Tom into a vast room with a great fourposter bed and innumerable books. Tom began moving stacks of novels off the bed, and Harry helped him put them on the floor.

"Read anything you want, of course," muttered Tom and blew dust off a few volumes. "There are some good novels in here. Oh, and there is a piano in the corner if you play."

Harry shook his head. "No, I've never learned. Do you play?"

Tom nodded. He flung some books down and walked over to the piano. Soon, music filled the air, and Harry listened in wonder. At first there were just little flutters of sound, as hesitant as a first kiss. Delicate notes hovered in the air, and Harry was reminded of gentle rain and springtime, and the soft touch of skin against skin. The notes fell softly, dancing through the evening silence, rippling like wind on water, but there was something else lingering underneath, a deeper note, as of sorrow, sweet and pure...

Harry closed his eyes. He suddenly knew, with his whole heart, that Tom Riddle, _this _Tom Riddle, was never Voldemort. And somehow, the reason why he _wasn't_ was hidden deep inside the music. No one who had become less than human could play like _that, _pouring his soul into each note.

"There!" Tom looked up as the last note died away. "Did you like that piece?"

Harry just nodded, unable to speak. "That was... more than magic. What _was _that? Does it have a name?"

"Debussy's Arabesque Number One," said Tom lightly. "It's one of my favorite things to play."

Harry's glance fell on a portrait perched on top of the piano. It was a photograph of a young man with dark hair and laughing blue eyes. "Who is that, Tom? The man in the picture?"

A shadow fell over Tom Riddle's face, and Harry flushed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked..."

"Oh, it's all right, Harry." Tom picked up the photograph and held it. "He... He was my friend and my lover. His name was Sebastian. He used to live here with me, and he used to play this piano, too. In fact, he loved the piece I just played best of all... He died three years ago, in a car accident."

"Oh." Harry felt horrible for bringing it up. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Tom."

"Thank you." Tom sat in silence for a moment. Then he said softly: "He never knew that I was a wizard. It wasn't that I was hiding it from him, exactly, it just seemed so... irrelevant. I knew that I would have to tell him eventually, of course, when he began to realize that I didn't age at the same rate as other men. I used to move around quite a bit before I met him, so that no one would know me long enough to grow suspicious that I didn't age as I should. But after I met Sebastian, I didn't want to move on without him. I would have had to tell him my secret in another few years, and if he still wanted me, we could have moved together... But as it turned out, there was no need for any of that."

Tom got up abruptly, wiping his face quickly on his sleeve. "Let's see; do you have everything you need, then, Harry? Still not hungry? Here are some clean clothes; you can use mine even if they are a little big for you. Let me know if you need anything else."

"I'm fine," whispered Harry.

"I will see you in the morning, then." Tom grabbed a couple of novels. "Oh, I had forgotten I even had these! Good night, Harry." He bent and kissed Harry lightly on the cheek.

"Good night," muttered Harry, suddenly unable to look up. "Thank you for everything, Tom."

As soon as Tom had left, Harry changed into the t-shirt and pajama pants Tom had provided for him. He crawled under the soft blankets, suddenly dead tired. But sleep took a long time coming to him that night. This strange day had shaken something from him, a certainty about the world and his place in it. The world as he had known it had unraveled, and the dark threads that were left had yet to be woven into a picture that made any sense.

_Tom Riddle was not Voldemort. _At least, _this _Tom wasn't. But what if there was another Tom out there waiting for him, in another night, in another dark, a Tom made of prophecies and fear and the words of an old man...

Harry thought of the small greyish shard that Tom had taken from him, and he felt a sudden uprush of fear. What _was _that? That _thing? _Had Dumbledore known what it was?

_I wonder if Dumbledore is still out there, somewhere, _he thought to himself, trying to find a cool spot for his warm forehead on his pillow. Suddenly, he smiled to himself. _And I wonder what he would think if he could see me now, wearing Tom Riddle's clothes and sleeping in the bed he must have shared with his lover... _

Strange thoughts kept whirling around in his mind, indistinct shapes filled with darkness and void, and half-familiar voices clamoring to be heard. Voldemort. Dumbledore. Snape... And a small, grey fragment of something that was neither soul nor flesh...

But as Harry finally drifted off to sleep, only one last memory from his chaotic, absurd day lingered in his mind: Tom Riddle's voice, whispering that Harry was beautiful...


	3. Chapter 3

**~The Final Hiding Place~**

**Chapter 3**

**Summary: **Left alone with Dudley's computer, Harry googles "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on a whim. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that... HP/TR romance.

**Warning: ** **Slash **(same-sex romance) between Harry and Tom Riddle. AU from the end of Book 6, obviously.

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the encouraging reviews and comments! You guys are wonderful! I apologize for my long absence - lots of personal issues lately.

**...**

The next morning, Harry met a ghost in Tom Riddle's flat.

He woke up much too early, while the first grey-white light of dawn was still shaping itself out of the night. Harry had been dreaming that his scar hurt, but when he opened his eyes, the searing pain dissolved with the remnants of the dream. The anguish had been nothing but a memory, etched into his brain, of the torments of the past.

Harry sat up in the unfamiliar bed, heart beating faster. His hand went to his scar, but he could feel nothing but the customary rough edges of the lightning bolt. There was no pain, and no Dark Lord. Voldemort was gone from his mind, leaving only a haunting memory of the bond they had once shared.

Harry tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn't. He heard someone stirring in the kitchen, and he dressed quickly and went to find Tom Riddle.

But the man sitting at the kitchen table in the blue-white morning shadows, bent over the pages of an ancient spell book, was not Tom. It was... no, impossible! It was Sebastian, Tom's dead lover, the man from the photograph. Harry stood completely still in the doorway, his skin brushed with ice.

_No. No, no, no. Sebastian can't be here. Sebastian is dead. Unless Tom is lying to me as well... _

The man looked up, as if he suddenly sensed Harry's presence. "Oh, you are up already! Do you want some tea?" His voice was oddly familiar.

"Tom?" Harry's voice came out as a whisper. "Is that you?"

"Oh!" The man sounded startled. "Oh, damn, I forgot that I'm still under the glamour! I'm so sorry; I must have frightened you half to death, Harry. I couldn't sleep last night, you see, after all the strange and terrible things you had told me, and I began to think about what we should do next. I realized that I will need a wand to protect us both, and I can hardly walk into Ollivander's as myself and buy a new one, can I? I suppose Mr. Ollivander would recognize me, even after all these years. So I borrowed your wand for a moment and cast a glamour on myself. I hope you don't mind. What do you think? Do I look presentable for wand shopping?"

It took a few moments before Harry found his voice again. "It's a good disguise, Tom. I don't think anyone will recognize you... But why did you choose _this_ form? _His_ form?"

Tom flushed a little. "I suppose it was the first one that came to mind."

Harry nodded. He studied Tom's face - Sebastian's face - and an image suddenly rose in his mind of the two of them together, Tom and Sebastian, here in the kitchen at daybreak, sitting together, talking, kissing, going back to bed... Harry felt his face grow hot.

"I'll make some breakfast if you want," he said quickly, without looking at the almost-stranger at the breakfast table.

"Better let me, Harry." Tom got to his feet. "I know where everything is." He put two mugs on the table. "How strange this feels; I haven't made breakfast for two in the longest time..." He turned abruptly around and busied himself at the stove.

For the first time in his life, Harry wished he could share Tom Riddle's thoughts.

...

"How may I assist you, gentlemen?" A shock of silver hair appeared from behind a dusty shelf filled with boxes. Mr. Ollivander bowed with his customary old-world courtesy. "Are you here to buy a wand? Oh!" His kind silver-grey eyes widened as he recognized Harry. "Mr. Potter! What an honor to see you here again!" He shook Harry's hand with vigor. "I trust everything is well with your wand? Or are you here to have it repaired?"

"Oh, my wand is fine," said Harry and pulled his holly wand from his pocket. Mr. Ollivander caressed in lovingly for a moment before returning it to Harry with a smile.

Harry nodded towards the disguised Tom. "My friend, er... M. Sébastien... requires a replacement wand, Mr. Ollivander. He is visiting from France, and his old wand met with an unfortunate accident as he was traveling. Some teenage wizards were jinxing each other near the baggage area of the Knight Bus, and they blew up a few suitcases."

"Ah!" Mr. Ollivander looked suitably shocked. "How very unfortunate! I do hope you will not let this regrettable incident taint your memory of your visit to Britain, M. Sébastien! I will be honored to assist you in choosing a suitable replacement wand. May I ask what wood your previous wand was made from, sir?"

Tom hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, with the faintest trace of a French accent: "My wand was made from yew. It was around 13-14 inches or so."

Mr. Ollivander paused for a moment. "Yew? That is... an unusual type of wand wood, sir. You hardly ever see yew wands in Britain these days." His sharp eyes lingered on Tom's face.

Harry held his breath. But Tom merely glanced at the wand boxes lined up along the walls and said, in a rather uninterested sort of voice: "Is that so? Yew wands are not at all unusual among old French wizarding families. I do not believe they are made very often nowadays, but some families have wands that have been passed down for many centuries."

"Ah. Well, that explains it." Mr. Ollivander was smiling again now. "How tragic, that the actions of a few unruly youths robbed you of a fine family heirloom, sir!" He rummaged among the boxes on the shelf. "Let's see, I do believe I have a few yew ones, in the very back. They have not been sought after for quite a while... May I ask what type of core your wand had, sir?"

Tom hesitated again, but only for the briefest instant. "Phoenix feather. Also rather rare in this country, perhaps?"

Mr. Ollivander froze. For a moment, he just stood there, very still, a few wand boxes clutched in his hand. When he turned to face his customers, his face was deathly pale. "Very rare indeed, sir." His glance traveled from Tom to Harry, and then back to Tom.

"Did I hear you say that this gentleman is a friend of yours, Mr. Potter?" The old wand maker's voice was a whisper. "Have you known him for a long time, or...?" His voice trailed off.

"Yes," said Harry firmly. "M. Sébastien is an old friend of mine." He could see momentary confusion flicker in the old man's eyes.

Mr. Ollivander hastily put a few boxes down on the table in front of Tom. "Perhaps one of these will suit you, sir." He eyed Tom nervously as the young wizard picked up one wand after the other and flicked them.

"No," said Tom finally. "None of these, I think, M. Olivander."

Mr. Ollivander clasped his hands together. "I am very sorry to hear that, sir. In that case, I am afraid I am unable to help you. Perhaps you will have to wait until you return to your own country to find something more suitable."

His glance met Tom's, and Tom took a few steps closer. "That would be most inconvenient, M. Ollivander. Fortunately, I do not think it will be necessary. I have some slight skills as a legilimens, and something tells me that you have a perfect wand for me, here in your shop. Perhaps you have merely forgotten about it."

"I don't know what you mean, sir..." Mr. Ollivander faltered.

"Oh, I think you do," said Tom calmly. "A yew wand, 13 1/2 inches, phoenix feather core..."

Mr. Ollivander was looking distinctly unwell now. Little beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, and he wiped them off with his handkerchief. His glance shifted nervously to Harry.

"You refuse to help me?" Tom spoke softly, but Mr. Ollivander began to shiver uncontrollably.

"No," breathed the wand maker. "Oh, Merlin, no! It is not in my power to refuse you, sir." He walked slowly over to a large oaken desk, unlocked the top drawer and pulled out a wand box with unsteady hands.. "I believe this is what you want, sir. Here it is, my Lord, and may heaven have mercy on us all." His face was ashen now.

Tom opened the box, took out the yew wand and flicked it. A few golden sparks shot out, and a slow smile spread across Tom's face. "Ah, yes. This one will do, Mr. Ollivander. May I ask where you found this phoenix feather? It is not generally believed that this particular creature had ever given more than two feathers, or so I have heard."

Mr. Ollivander grasped at the desk, as if to steady himself. "Professor Dumbledore's funeral, sir. A feather... A feather dropped to the ground just as the headmaster's phoenix vanished into the sky. And I, fool that I am, couldn't help picking it up. I wish to Merlin I hadn't..." He trembled and looked as if he were about to weep.

Tom turned to Harry. "Harry, would you kindly pay for the wand? I find myself a little short on galleons at the moment."

Harry pulled out the small bag of coins he had withdrawn from Gringott's a little while earlier, and paid for the wand.

Mr. Ollivander gave Harry the change with trembling hands, and then he regarded the two wizards in silence for a moment before whispering: "I still do not understand how... how this gentleman comes to be here with _you, _Mr. Potter. No, I do not understand. But I know better than to ask."

"Good." Tom pointed his wand at Mr. Ollivander's chest. "It is better if you do not know."

"And I don't suppose I will remember any of this after you leave, will I?" whispered Mr. Ollivander.

"No," said Tom softly. "I don't suppose you will. _Obliviate!_"

...

As soon as the door to Ollivander's had closed behind them, Tom leaned heavily against the stone wall of the small shop. He looked rather ill all of a sudden.

"What's the matter, Tom?" asked Harry quickly. "Were you nervous? I thought that went rather well, all things considered. He did recognize you by your wand, of course - we probably should have seen that coming - but you _do _cast a very good memory charm, even after all these years."

"You thought things went _well_? " Tom's face was white. "Harry, that was horrible. I have always been rather good at reading other people's thoughts, and the poor old man was terrified beyond words. Once he realized who I was, he thought I was going to murder him, and you as well..."

"Well, of course he did. He did think you were Voldemort, after all." Harry didn't really see why Tom should be so surprised by this.

"Well, he would be right, wouldn't he?" Tom's voice was trembling. "From everything you have told me, this Voldemort _is_ me. He looks like me, in some distorted fashion, he carries the wand that should work perfectly for me and me only, and both Dumbledore and Slughorn apparently remember me becoming him... A murderer. A maniac, destroying one human life after the other..."

Harry grasped Tom's arm firmly. "Come, Tom. Don't dwell on that. _I _know that you are not Voldemort, and I know him better than anyone. Come on - we have things to do. If Professor Snape was somehow involved in faking Dumbledore's death, perhaps we should pay him a visit. But please change back to yourself; seeing you in this form is..." Harry didn't quite know what to say. There was something about seeing Tom in the form of his handsome dead lover that was more than a little unsettling. Perhaps it felt eerie because Harry had wondered for a moment, when he first saw Tom like this, if he _was_ seeing the ghost of Sebastian. Or perhaps it all felt so odd because this stranger's form was a visible reminder to Harry that, even after all these years of sharing a mind with Voldemort, there was a great deal he did _not_ know about Tom Riddle... Somehow, the thought that Tom was still so deeply in love with this completely unknown man, made Harry feel... almost jealous. As if Tom Riddle should have been _his, _not this stranger's...

Harry glanced up and met Tom's startled gaze. Too late, Harry remembered that this Tom Riddle, just like Voldemort, _did_ know how to read minds. Harry tried desperately to change his train of thought. Snape. Potions. Hogwarts. Snape's black greasy hair...

Harry cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I'm not quite certain where Professor Snape lives when he is not at school. Perhaps Mr. Ollivander knows. Wait here a minute, Tom." Harry turned around and headed quickly into the wand shop.

"Mr. Potter! What a pleasant surprise!" Mr. Ollivander beamed at him. "Your wand is not giving you any trouble, I hope?"

"Oh, not at all." Harry smiled back. "I just popped in to ask a question, actually. Do you happen to know where I could find Professor Snape when he is not at Hogwarts? You see, there was this potion that was _supposed _to be a luck potion, but it turned out to turn people into leprechauns instead..."

Mr. Ollivander laughed. "Ah, those Weasley twins! Say no more, Mr. Potter. Professor Snape lives in a small house in Spinner's End, I believe. I am sure he will be able to help the unfortunate leprechaun recover its original form, although he will probably send a howler to the Weasley boys afterwards."

Harry grinned and thanked Mr. Ollivander.

"Oh, don't mention it, Mr. Potter." The old man bowed. He hesitated for a moment, and then he whispered: "Is everything all right, Mr. Potter? I... I can't quite explain why, but I was feeling rather uneasy about you this morning... As if some sixth sense is telling me that You-Know-Who may be closer than we think..."

"Oh, everything is fine, Mr. Ollivander," said Harry quickly. He turned to leave, but then a thought struck him. "Oh, just a quick question about wands, if I may: Have you ever, in all your years of experience, met two wizards who had precisely the same sort of wand? The same type of wand wood, the same length, and the same wand core, say two hairs from the same unicorn?"

Mr. Ollivander smiled. "Oh, no, Mr. Potter! Not even the Weasley twins have wands that are _that_ similar, no matter what they may have told you!"

Harry stared at the old wand maker. "So if two wizards had identical wands, with wand cores taken from the same animal..."

"Then," said Mr. Ollivander firmly, "those two wizards would be one and the same man, Mr. Potter."

...

When Harry stepped out of the shop into the empty street, he found that Tom had assumed his own form again.

"Better?" Tom smiled and shook out his dark curls.

Harry gazed at the familiar pale face and silver-grey eyes and nodded.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable before," said Tom softly. "By assuming Sebastian's form, I mean. Just nostalgia on my part, but it must have struck you as rather morbid. Did you find out where this Professor Snape lives?"

Harry nodded."Spinner's End. But I have to warn you - Snape is a rather unpleasant person. And for the life of me, I have never been able to sort out whether he's on Dumbledore's or Voldemort's side..."

"Perhaps," said Tom thoughtfully, "that's one and the same side, after all, Harry. Is Snape a Muggle-born? The name is not one I remember from my own days in the wizarding world."

"He's a half-blood. His mother's maiden name, as I discovered last year, was Prince."

"Eileen Prince?" Tom frowned. "I remember her very well - we were at school together. A strange, quiet sort of girl, rather sullen... Good at potions, though. Oh, what do you have there?" He gazed in fascination at the shimmering fabric Harry had just pulled out of his pocket. "An invisibility cloak?"

Harry smiled. "You'd better wear this when we visit Snape."

Tom grinned and reached for the cloak. "All right, then! I can hover invisibly in the background and read his mind while you talk to him about Dumbledore. Excellent plan, Harry!"

"Snape's an occlumens, Tom. I don't think even you will be able to read his mind..."

"Oh, of course I will," said Tom cheerfully. "My magic has grown powerful from not being used, remember? I should be able to read any thought that runs through anyone's mind."

"Right." Harry looked away. If only Tom didn't read too many of the thoughts that ran through Harry's mind...

_Mustn't think about him being handsome... Mustn't think about Sebastian kissing that soft curve of his mouth... No. No. No. Not thinking about that._

"Ready, Harry?" For some reason, Tom seemed to suppress a slight smile. "Let's apparate to Professor Snape's lair."

"I don't have my apparating license yet," murmured Harry.

"I never got mine either," said Tom lightly. "But we can't let a little thing like that stop us. Hold on tight, Harry!"


End file.
